


Governor for a day

by cactusonastair



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Community: lewis_challenge, Lewis Secret Santa 2012, M/M, off-screen case-related murder/suicide/violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusonastair/pseuds/cactusonastair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Lewis on sick leave for a day and a sensitive case on his hands, Hathaway is stuck with his very last choice for governor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Governor for a day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valancy_joy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/gifts).



> Originally posted on lewis_challenge (LJ) [on 29 December 2012](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/41012.html).

"For God's sake, Lewis!" Innocent snapped after the fifth, earth-shaking, sneeze. "Why on earth did you choose to come in, the state you're in?" Lewis fumbled for his handkerchief under the Chief Super's death-glare. James silently offered him his, and got a grateful look in return.

"Got a text, Ma'am, summoning us to your office," Lewis explained, snuffling into the handkerchief. "Urgent, it said."

"Has it not occurred to you, _Inspector_ Lewis, that text messages can be transmitted bidirectionally? You should have called in sick! And as for you, Hathaway!" James jumped when he suddenly came under fire. "I'm surprised you didn't make him!"

There was no way she could know...could she? James' heart began to thump. "I don't see how I could have..." he began to argue, before getting interrupted by a nudge in the shin. Lewis' message was clear: _thou dost protest too much, methinks._ He abruptly shut up.

Innocent glared at them both. "Home, Lewis," she ordered, jabbing an imperious finger towards the door.

"But...the case, Ma'am?" The Vice-Chancellor had already been on the phone about it, Innocent had been explaining before Lewis treated them to the sneeze that broke the camel's back, although James still wasn't sure why. Female undergraduate, found hanged from an oak in Wytham Woods - it sounded like a straightforward student suicide to him, but obviously there had to be more to it if the university administration was showing this much concern.

"I'll have to assign it to someone else," Innocent decided. "I can't have you spreading what might be some lethal disease to prominent Oxford dons."

"No, Ma'am. Then why not let Sergeant Hathaway take charge of the case?" Lewis suggested. "He's more than capable of handling it."

He said it matter-of-factly, but James' heart soared foolishly at the words.

But Innocent shook her head. "I share your opinion, but not for a case this sensitive. Ordinarily I shouldn't even be assigning it to anyone under DCI. I'll keep Hathaway on the case, but someone else will have to supervise."

James winced internally. Lewis sent him an apologetic glance, although James knew full well that it wasn't his fault. And it might not be a total disaster, depending on who he was assigned to. Innocent's brow furrowed as she mentally flicked through the senior officers' duty roster, and he did the same. Peterson was in court today, thank all the saints. This wasn't DI Laxton's area of expertise. DCI Morris was busy with the Cox case...it seemed that the whole of Oxfordshire CID was engaged in one way or another.

Innocent's frown deepened as she, too, reached the end of the roll call of senior officers. James' heart dropped to his shoes when he realised who that left him with.

"I suppose I'll have to be your governor for a day, Sergeant Hathaway," Innocent said briskly. "Send Lewis home." Lewis opened his mouth to protest, but Innocent steamrolled on. "I don't trust you to drive in that state. Hathaway, I'll leave in ten minutes and meet you at Wytham Woods."

There was no point in arguing when Innocent was in this mood. "Yes, Ma'am," they chorused dolefully, and they let themselves out.

* * *

If it had happened to any other DS in the station, Robbie would have found the situation uproariously funny. But not when it was Hathaway, and especially not with the look of doom Hathaway was wearing right now. He looked as if he was on the way to his own execution.

"It's not the end of the world," he reminded James as he unlocked the door to his flat.

"Not from where I'm standing."

"It's just for a day, lad. You might impress her."

"That's assuming I don't get gutted to pieces first." Ever the pessimist, his sergeant. 

"Just don't be as much of a smart-arse as you usually are," Robbie advised.

"Easier said than done," James said, but at least this time, he managed to crack a smile.

Robbie smiled too, before being seized by another bout of furious sneezing. Hathaway laid an arm across his back, supporting him while he turned his lungs inside-out, and when Robbie was finally done, ordered, "Bed."

"I can get meself into bed," Robbie protested. "I'm not that geriatric yet."

"No, but you are laid up with one of the worst flus I've ever heard," Hathaway said, sounding just as implacable as Innocent at her most formidable. Robbie gave in and let himself be led into the bedroom, which they'd just vacated three quarters of an hour earlier at Innocent's summons. He took off his tie and suit and crawled thankfully into bed while Hathaway alternated between hovering protectively around him and bustling around fetching things Robbie might need. 

Robbie sipped slowly at the cup of steaming, honeyed tea James brought him. It was nice, in some ways, to just lie back and let someone else coddle him for a bit. He hadn't had that since Val, and it still seemed beyond miraculous that he had it again. What had he ever done to deserve this _twice_?

James' long fingers ran over the sheets, smoothing them out and tucking them under Robbie's chin. Robbie's breath caught when he saw the look in James' eyes, tender still despite what Robbie had inflicted on him. "I'm sorry for abandoning you like this, lad," he said, extricating his hand from the blanket to brush James' cheek.

"Not your fault," James murmured automatically. 

"You're worried about something."

James nodded. "I'm worried that Innocent will find out about -"

"About -?"

"This." James leaned in to kiss Robbie. Robbie pressed back in against his soft lips, marvelling as he always did at the fact that he _could_ , until he remembered just why he was at home and in bed in the middle of the morning and pulled away, shaking his head.

"Dammit, James, are you _trying_ to get sick?"

"Ideally, within the next ten minutes."

Lewis glanced at the bedside clock. Hathaway should have left five minutes ago, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry. "D'you have everything you need, sir?" he asked softly.

"What have I told you about calling me that in _that_ voice?" He'd long given up his campaign to get James to just call him 'Robbie', but hell, it was going to be bloody awkward down the station if "sir" suddenly became the sexiest word in the English language. And the way James said it always threatened to make it so. 

James grinned in a way that seemed to say, that had been the idea all along.

"Yes, you bloody great pillock, I have everything." _Except one six-foot smartarse sergeant in the bed with me._ "Now get along with you, or you'll have to face _two_ women who are more than capable of having your guts for garters."

"Doctor Hobson will even come armed for the occasion," James agreed solemnly. "Remember, sir, sleep and liquids. Call me if there's anything you need." He planted a chaste kiss on Robbie's cheek, and shut the door quietly behind him.

Robbie missed him already.

* * *

"At last," Laura said, when the forces of law and order finally deigned to make their appearance in the shape of Detective Sergeant James Hathaway. "I was about to file a missing persons report."

Hathaway's eyes searched the forested glade, as if scouting for a band of marauding bandits. Or maybe it was a single furious DI he was expecting to see. Finding neither, his gaze came to rest upon her. "My apologies, Doctor Hobson." He sounded more relieved than sorry.

"Where's Lewis?" she asked.

"In bed," he replied.

Time stopped for a moment.

"In _bed_ ," Laura repeated, waggling her eyebrows suggestively at James, trying not to laugh as he visibly kicked himself for his choice of words.

"He's ill," Hathaway amended hastily. "He has the 'flu. Innocent told him to go home."

"I see," Laura said, making a mental note to go check up on Robbie later. 

Hathaway's flushed cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. She regarded him in amusement. Once upon a time, James had been so tight-lipped about himself she'd have to pry him open with a pair of forceps to reveal a single detail about his personal life. But now that he and Robbie were together, he was practically bubbling over with happiness. Along with it overflowed inadvertent little tidbits about their lives. She had no doubt that Lewis' bed had until recently contained a second occupant.

She'd been a little surprised when Robbie and James took her out to dinner and told her about the fact that there was now a "them", but touched, too, that they trusted her enough to tell her. As far as she knew, she was the only one they'd taken into her confidence so far. Robbie was still waiting for the right moment to have it out with Lyn, and of course, it would do absolutely no good to have it broadcast about the nick.

Reluctantly, she turned her thoughts back to work. "So, if not Robbie, then who's..."

"Good morning, Laura," Jean Innocent said, striding onto the scene, wet leaves scrunching beneath her business-like footfall.

"Morning, Jean," Laura replied in surprise, looking to Hathaway for confirmation that Innocent was indeed the answer to her unfinished question. The overly neutral look on his face was confirmation enough.

"So, Sergeant, what's the story?"

James' mouth opened, then closed again. "I, er..."

"You didn't only just get here, did you?" Jean looked pointedly at her watch. "I told you to send Lewis home, not tuck him into bed!"

"My fault, Jean," Laura came to James' rescue. "James told me that Lewis was ill, and I've been interrogating him about it since he got here. I can fill you in on the situation."

Innocent's ire was instantly dissipated. "Please do, Laura."

"The victim's name was Lisa Nichols," Laura said as she led them over to the scene. "Undergraduate at Courtenay College. I'm doing the estimate from a distance, so take it with a pinch of salt, but time of death, early hours of the morning. Between six and eight." They stared silently at the body as it swayed gently in the breeze, hanging from a branch of an ancient oak.

"The initial report said suicide. But how on earth did she get up there?" Innocent asked.

"Good question, Jean. You can see that a ladder was used - see those two indentations where it rested against the branch?"

"And down here, where it rested against the ground," Hathaway said. "I take it there was no ladder when you got here."

"None. Also, look at her hands." They were tied behind her back with some rough twine.

"So, not suicide then. Murder," Innocent said heavily.

"There are some things I want to check once the body's been cut down, but yes, the signs certainly point that way," Laura agreed.

"But no suicide note was found?" Hathaway put in.

"No. There could be something in her pockets, I suppose."

"Go ahead and bring her down," Innocent ordered. "I don't think there's much more we can tell from here."

The SOCOs busied themselves with the task. Innocent looked on steadily, while Hathaway wandered around, examining everything he could apart from the body. Despite this, Laura knew that they were both, in their own way, vowing justice for the poor girl.

When the body was on the ground, Laura went through the pockets quickly. "Nothing," she reported.

"Has this area been ground-searched yet?" James inquired, from a spot next to the tree trunk.

"Not thoroughly. Why?"

"This rock," James said, tugging at his trousers and crouching down next to a rock the size of a large paperweight. "Rather out of place, isn't it?" He picked it up with a rubber-gloved hand. "The ground beneath it is wet, just like the rest of the area."

"You're speculating that the rock was placed here recently."

"After the rain. Possibly to weight down a suicide note."

"Leaving no stone unturned, Sergeant - excellent," Jean said approvingly. "But remember, it _is_ murder."

"We don't know that for sure, yet. Post-mortem report, soon as I can," Laura promised.

"So who found the body, Ma'am?" Hathaway asked, standing up once more.

"Herbert Storr. He's Director of Undergraduate Studies at the Department of Economics. He recognised the girl - she was reading economics."

"Bit of a coincidence," James observed.

"Yes, and one we'll be taking up with him when we interview him later. He returned to his office in a state of shock and phoned us from there. He also informed the girl's tutor and the Vice-Chancellor, who proceeded to telephone me."

So that was why Jean Innocent had decided to supervise this directly, in Robbie's absence. "Sorry, why's the Vice-Chancellor involved in all this?" Laura asked. Hathaway's expression told her he'd wanted to ask the same question.

"Because the girl's tutor is Max Mortensen." Hathaway looked impressed. Laura had read about him in the papers - he was a rising superstar in the economics world who'd just waded into politics with a dense but influential book criticising the government's austerity measures. There had been considerable talk of putting together a commission with him at its head to look into revising some of the harder-hitting cost-cutting measures.

"So you see why the Vice-Chancellor doesn't want any scandal about this."

"No mud on their star faculty's coattails."

"I'm glad you appreciate the importance of discretion, Sergeant."

"Yes, Ma'am. Any orders, Ma'am?" Hathaway looked tentative. Laura sympathised. It had to be hard trying to adjust for the differences in managerial style between two people as different as Robert Lewis and Jean Innocent.

Jean seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "What would Lewis tell you to do?" she asked simply.

Hathaway blinked at her, then visibly relaxed. "He would leave it up to me, Ma'am."

"Excellent. Laura, we eagerly await your report. Come on, Hathaway. We'll interview Herbert Storr next, and then Mortensen. In the meantime, dispatch some of your DCs to go talk to the girls' friends. Put out an appeal for information, see if anyone saw anyone walking in the woods this morning, especially someone toting a ladder around. Oh, and, I'll want the area scoured with a fine-toothed comb for that ladder."

The corner of Hathaway's lips twitched, and Laura knew he was dying to ask how fine-toothed Innocent wanted the search to be, to snag what had to be at least ten feet worth of ladder. But discretion won the day, and the desire manifested itself only in a bemused glance exchanged with her and a single eye-roll heavenwards, pleading for strength.

* * *

Herbert Storr ushered them into his office with an officiousness that suggested the shock of his gruesome discovery that morning had been efficiently processed by his system and discarded. The environment he inhabited was equally sterile, his books arranged in order of height and shut away behind glass doors. The only thing off-kilter in his immaculate office was the ancient door that wouldn't quite shut, as James discovered as he tried to close it after them.

"Don't bother," Storr said, when he observed James' futile efforts. "I've been on to Facilities to fix that for a week and a four days now. Apparently it's antique -" he sneered at the word - "and needs a particular craftsman with particular skills to come fix it without damaging its 'original character'." James could hear the quotation marks.

"I take it you don't share in that assessment," Innocent remarked.

"I believe in conservation, certainly. But I also believe that the Director of Undergraduate Studies should have an office that can be secured. I keep important records in here." Storr cleared his throat. "You didn't come all this way to discuss a door. Please."

"Thank you." Innocent sat. James preferred to stand. Storr gave him an annoyed look, but let him be.

"Terrible business, this, for the department and university."

"And for Lisa Nichols," James couldn't help but remark, irritated by the callous omission.

Storr glowered at him through his horn-rimmed glasses. "I should have thought that went without saying."

Innocent took over. "We are fully on board with the need for discretion, I can assure you," she said smoothly, an administrator at ease with another administrator. "Can you please describe for us your experience this morning?"

"Certainly. I left my home in Summertown at 0730 hours, having eaten breakfast, and drove to Wytham Woods for my morning constitutional."

"Are you a frequent visitor to the woods?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I walk there everyday." He indicated a photograph of himself in a forest, a dog at his heel. "The fact is well-known in the department. I organise a walkathon at the beginning of every academic year in the woods, for the faculty and students to get to know each other, or re-acquaint themselves, as the case may be."

He continued, "As for this morning, I was following my usual route, when Shapley - my dog - began to bark and pull me off the path. Naturally, I went to investigate, and found what you must yourself have seen - Lisa Nichols, dangling from a tree." He shuddered, but it was more theatrical than genuine.

"Did you recognise her immediately?" Innocent asked.

"Yes. As an undergraduate in my department, naturally her academic work falls within my purview. I had just met her a few days ago to discuss what courses she should take her in her third year."

"And how was she doing, academics-wise?" James asked.

"Fine. Perhaps even slightly better than average. She was aiming for a First."

"How did she seem, during your meeting?"

Storr gave a stiff little shrug. "She behaved as any other undergraduate behaves in the presence of their Director of Undergraduate Studies. I saw nothing to alarm me."

"While you were there, did you notice anything about the scene? A ladder, perhaps?" Innocent asked, drawing them back to the scene of the crime.

"Yes, there was a ladder," Storr said, unexpectedly. "It was leaning against the tree."

Innocent shot James a puzzled glance. If there had been a ladder when Storr arrived, who had taken it away? "Did you notice anyone else in the woods, Professor?"

"Now that I come to think of it," Storr said thoughtfully, "Shapley was barking and straining against the leash at something, possibly someone. But I was so shocked by the entire thing that I went straight back to my car. I'm ashamed to say I didn't have the presence of mind for some time to call the police immediately. I drove back to my office to let my head clear, and when I got here, I rang 999."

So the murderer must have been scared away by the approach of Storr and his dog, and then when Storr left the scene, hurriedly removed all evidence of his handiwork from the scene.

"Did you happen to see a sheet of paper on the ground?" James asked.

"Paper?" Storr frowned. "No, I can't say I did - although, as you can imagine, I wasn't looking down."

They asked a few more questions, but Storr's answers only muddied the picture further. "Thank you, Professor Storr," Innocent said at last, rising. "Can you direct us to Max Mortensen's office?"

"Just a few doors down, but you'll find him in his rooms at Courtenay at the moment, I believe," said Storr.

"What is he like, Professor, if I may ask?" James asked.

Storr considered. "His work has been publicly acclaimed and is of great social utility."

"He must be a great credit to the department, having such success as such a young age - I believe he's only just thirty, is he not?" Innocent said warmly.

Storr eked out a tight smile. "That is so, Chief Superintendent Innocent. That is so."

* * *

Max Mortensen was the polar opposite of his colleague. He welcomed them into his office with eyes rimmed with red. Aside from that, he was good-looking, in a rumpled sort of way. He showed them into his messy office, crowded with stacks of papers and books all over his desk, shelves and floor. They picked their way to his desk, Jean taking the only bare seat while Hathaway took up a position near the overflowing bookcases, tilting his head sideways to read the titles. She wondered how Mortensen ran tutorials with his office in this state. Perhaps it wasn't an accident that the piles of books around the desk were all at about chair-height.

"I understand that Lisa Nichols was a student of yours," Jean began sympathetically. "I'm sorry. This must have come as an enormous shock."

Mortensen nodded vigorously. "It's a terrible tragedy."

"Before I ask you any questions about Miss Nichols, Professor, may I ask what your research is about?" Jean asked. She'd glanced through the article about Mortensen that had been in the papers recently, but hadn't read it in depth.

"Yes, of course." Mortensen removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his tie. "I specialise in market design theory."

"Market design theory? Could you explain what you mean by that?" Jean inquired.

"I'll give you the classic example: marriage markets. Suppose there are ten men in the world and ten women. Each man ranks the women in order of preference, while each woman does the same for the men."

"Don't economists believe in one true love, then?" Hathaway interrupted.

A pained look crossed Mortensen's face. "It's...just an approximation." Jean threw James an annoyed look for good measure. She was beginning to see where all those complaints about facetiousness came from. And besides, Hathaway was one to talk!

"The design of the market can be optimised to ensure a stable matching between men and women," Mortensen continued. "That is to say, no one can swap partners and have everyone be happier in aggregate. The challenge is to reduce the friction inherent in the market, making sure that everyone finds their best possible match. It's a hot field at the moment - two American economists just won the Nobel Prize for their pioneering work in the area.

"My own work applies the lessons of market design theory to the welfare market - optimally matching benefits to welfare recipients, saving a lot of money in administrative waste. My argument was that we don't need to cut benefits entirely, just make sure they're going to the right people in the most efficient way."

"Very commendable," Jean said. "Was Miss Nichols involved in your work at all?"

"No, she was just an undergraduate. We had talked of her doing some research with me for her honours thesis next year, but it hadn't been settled yet."

"She was a good student, then?" Hathaway said.

Mortensen nodded. "She was gifted, passionate. My number one..." His voice drifted off, and he swallowed visibly. "Sorry. It's just such a waste. She was so promising. How did she die?"

"We're not sure yet, Professor. We're still waiting for the pathologist's report. I have to tell you, though, that the preliminary indications are that it was murder."

Mortensen gulped. "That's terrible. Who could have wanted to do such a thing?"

"That's what we're here to ask you. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Miss Nichols?"

"No. No, I'm afraid not. She didn't deserve to die." He replaced the glasses on his nose, blinking at them owlishly. "She didn't deserve to die," he repeated.

"In my experience, people seldom do," Jean said gently. "When was the last time you spoke to her?"

Mortensen licked his lips. "The day before yesterday. We had a tutorial together."

"One on one?"

"On that day, yes."

"And what were you doing this morning, between six and eight?"

An unfathomably sad expression came over Mortensen's face. "Is that when...?" Jean nodded. Mortensen pulled himself together. "I was here, actually. I'm not usually, everyone knows I'm a night owl, but I had - have - a deadline later today for submitting a manuscript revision to my publisher. I thought I'd get an early start. The porter'll have seen me come in at about six. Two hours later, Herbert Storr came around, to tell me the horrible news."

"He came here?"

"Yes. It was very kind of him." Jean exchanged a significant glance with Hathaway. Storr didn't really seem the sort. Perhaps it had been less kindness and more saving the face of the department. Or perhaps they'd misjudged him altogether.

*

"Mortensen seemed pretty cut up over Lisa's death," Hathaway remarked as they left Mortensen's rooms to head for Lisa Nichols'.

"That could mean any number of things, unfortunately," Jean replied. "I take it you spotted the roll of twine in one of his drawers?"

"Yes, Ma'am. But it's standard twine. Anyone and everyone could use it for tying up parcels," Hathaway objected.

"True," Jean conceded. "Still, I see no motive for either Storr or Mortensen to have anything to do with Lisa Nichols' death." Mortensen seemed genuinely fond of his protege, and Storr had only known her in a distant sort of way. Perhaps a search of Lisa's rooms would shed further light on the matter.

The porter directed them to the right place. Their first glance as they entered told them that something was very wrong.

"Someone's been in here," Hathaway said grimly, "doing a systematic search of the room."

"Tried to put it back together but a bit too hastily," Jean agreed. It wasn't neat, but it wasn't a natural mess, either. Not a professional job. She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on a photograph of the girl who would occupy it no more. She had been pretty in life.

"Still, they left her laptop. Probably knew that it would be a bit too suspicious if that was missing. Gurdip'll be able to pull some data from that," Hathaway said.

"Yes, take it. I suspect that whatever the person came here to find will be gone. Let's try that first," Jean decreed.

* * *

A brief questioning of the rest of the students on Lisa Nichols' staircase yielded no clues as to the identity of the intruder. James called for SOCO to examine the room, and they drove back to the station.

The faces that greeted him mostly looked pitying, mixed in with a few gleeful smirks. James ignored them all. It hadn't been that bad a day so far, he reflected - Innocent had mostly run the show, but she'd taken his views seriously and considered what he had to say. She wasn't Lewis, but she would have been a decent governor in her day, and she was a vast improvement over his very first governor, the retired and unlamented DI Knox. She was sharp, too, asking all the right questions, and fortunately not so sharp that she'd caught on about him and Lewis. Yet.

James ran the gauntlet of curious faces and marched straight through to Gurdip's office, interrupting him in the middle of a game of what looked like Civilization III.

"You can conquer the world another day, Gurdip," James said, depositing the laptop on Gurdip's desk. "Look through that and see if you can find anything interesting, will you?"

"Sure thing, Sarge." Leaving Gurdip his geeky wonders to perform, he headed back to his and Lewis' office, casting a rueful glance as Lewis' empty chair. He shook himself and got to work, wheeling in a whiteboard and filling it with all the key data from their investigation thus far. Innocent arrived just as he'd summoned Julie to fill him in on what the DCs had discovered from their own interviews.

"Nothing much, I'm afraid, Sarge. They're a tight-lipped bunch. She'd seemed happy over the past few weeks, tutorials were going smoothly. Not a single enemy in the world, either. No clue why anyone would have wanted to murder her."

"Any news of the ladder?" Innocent asked.

"We think we've discovered where it came from. The groundskeepers at Wytham Woods reported one of theirs missing. It's kept in a shed not too far away from where the body was found."

"That explains that, then. But no sign of it yet?"

Julie shook her head regretfully. "They swept the woods looking for it, Ma'am. Not a sign."

"The trouble with this case," Innocent declared, when Julie had departed the room, "is too few suspects."

"We haven't found a single person with a motive for killing Lisa Nichols," James agreed with her assessment.

"Unless everyone's in on it together."

James flipped through the stack of written reports turned in by the DCs. "Even if they were, why? She was pretty, vivacious, clever..."

"Perhaps too clever?" Innocent suggested.

"Well, Mortensen did say she was his number one..." James stopped short. A glimpse of reality had just opened itself up to him, and then sealed itself away.

"Hathaway?"

"His number one...what if he didn't mean his number one _student_?" James said, thinking aloud, working to recapture his insight. He got it at last. "What if he meant number one as in his market design theory? That she was the girl for him?"

"That would explain why he was so upset by her death. But why would someone kill her over that? Unless there was something Mortensen cared about more? It wouldn't be good for his career if a rumour went around that he was in a relationship with one of his students."

"No, Ma'am," James said, his thoughts drifting to another man whose career would definitely go down the drain if anyone learned he was in love with his DS. Of course, it would have to be such a case, on such a day. Still, the faster it was solved, the better for everyone involved. "The question is, did _she_ love _him_?"

"Yes," said Gurdip, from the door. "Excuse me for eavesdropping, Ma'am, but I've managed to hack into her email. She sent an email to her professor two days ago telling him that she had something very important to tell him. It sounded personal."

"So what's the story?" Innocent asked, putting it all together. "She confesses her love for Mortensen. He likes her, but not enough to overcome his qualms about his academic career. But he's afraid that the rumour will spread, so he takes the precaution of bumping her off? And goes to all her friends threatening them with rustication if they blab?" She shook her head. "Mortensen didn't strike me as that good an actor. Moreover, he had a solid alibi for the time of the girl's death. The porter on duty said he'd seen Mortensen come in at six, just as he said."

"Unless Doctor Hobson made an error with the time of death..."

"Sorry, did I hear someone mention my name?" Laura Hobson asked, materialising out of nowhere and giving James a glare.

"...which is of course impossible," James continued.

She gave him a suspicious glance, then turned to Innocent. "So what's the current theory?"

"We've just dismissed one," Innocent said.

"Here's another," James began. "What if Mortensen didn't do the dirty work himself? What if he told Storr, who was afraid of the damage it would do to the department's reputation if one of its academic superstars was found to be shagging one of the undergraduates? He lures her to the woods under the pretence of talking to her about the situation, knocks her out, ties her up, drags her over to his favourite tree and hangs her?"

"Well, it's certainly a better theory," Innocent said.

"Sorry, but _I_ think it's hogwash," Laura Hobson said in her usual no-nonsense way. "Because my post-mortem examination shows that it was most probably suicide."

" _What_?" everyone chorused.

"The twine around her hands was tied _after_ death. Someone went out of their way to make us think it was murder, by doing that and removing the ladder."

That changed everything. The room was silent for a moment as everyone tried to calibrate their minds to accommodate this new piece of information.

"Sarge?" Julie asked, from the door.

"Yeah, Julie."

She joined the crowd in the office. "The front desk fielded a call from a member of the public," she reported. "He says he saw a red-headed girl taking a ladder out of a shed. He assumed it was one of the groundskeepers and thought nothing of it until he heard the appeal for information."

"Thank you, Julie. That confirms it, then," Innocent said. "It _was_ suicide."

"I suppose Mortensen must have rejected her advances," James said. "She was so distraught she ended it."

"But why, then, would anyone want to disguise that as a murder scene?"

"Sorry, Sarge - just now, did you mention someone named Storr? Was that S-T-O-R-R?" Gurdip asked. He'd been quietly tapping at Lisa Nichols' keyboard the whole time.

"Yeah. Find anything?"

"She had an appointment with him yesterday at half past two. I found it on her online calendar."

"Yesterday? But he said he'd met with her a few days ago," James frowned.

"Perhaps we should ask him," Innocent said grimly.

* * *

Laura pulled Hathaway aside, while Jean made the call. "I stopped by at Robbie's." Hathaway looked up in surprise.

"How's he doing, Doctor?"

"Pretty chipper for a man who seems intent on emptying out his brain via his nostrils. I brought him some chicken soup. Not homemade, but the best that Tesco's has to offer. So he had a good lunch."

"Thank you," James said gratefully.

"Don't mention it. How are you doing?"

"The station stands ready to take up a collection on my behalf."

"That bad, eh?"

Hathaway glanced up at Jean, and shrugged a no. "But I would've been happier if this case hadn't hit so close to home."

"No reason for her to suspect anything unless you blab," she told him bluntly. He nodded.

"No answer from Storr," Jean announced, cancelling the call in disgust. "I'll try asking Mortensen." She dialled another number. This time she got someone.

Laura looked around the office. "Looks like it takes quite a few people to replace a single Robbie Lewis, eh?"

Hathaway shook his head. "He's irreplaceable."

"Hathaway." James snapped to attention at Innocent's brisk command. "We have to go. I told Mortensen about Storr's meeting with Lisa Nichols."

"And what did he say?"

"He swore and slammed the phone down. I have the feeling he's headed for a confrontation with Storr." 

Hathaway turned to Laura. "Go," she urged him. "And for heaven's sake, be careful!"

"Don't tell Lewis," he instructed her, and bolted out the door after Jean.

* * *

Hathaway drove, while Jean reviewed the facts of the case in her mind. They had a plausible reason for Lisa Nichols' suicide. Unrequited love. The oldest reason in the book. But why it had been disguised as murder remained a mystery. The _culprit_ was obvious - Herbert Storr had discovered the body, and he was already a proven liar. If anyone had the chance to manipulate the crime scene, it was him. But why on earth?

She pictured the scene: Storr walking through the woods, his dog with the strange name - Shapely? Shapley? - tugging at the leash as it detected something untoward, discovering the body. Hathaway was probably correct about the suicide note. It must have said something that had driven him to do what he'd done. But how had Storr become involved?

What if the girl had gone to him for advice? He _was_ her Director of Undergraduate Studies, as Storr had repeatedly reminded them. She hadn't met him for advice on courses - well, perhaps she had, but a few days ago. Yesterday, she'd gone to him to talk about Max Mortensen. And perhaps he'd said something that had pushed her over the edge - he didn't seem to her to be the most understanding of men.

She shared her theory with Hathaway, who agreed it was as plausible as any. "Whatever it is he did, Mortensen's not going to forgive him for it." He floored the accelerator, and they got to the Department of Economics in record time, dashing up to Storr's office. There they paused.

The muffled sounds of an argument filtered through the permanent crack between door and jamb. "It's Mortensen and Storr," Hathaway whispered, putting his ear to the crack. He put his long fingers to the edge and pressed it open a touch. He pulled back. "Mortensen's armed. Handgun, small calibre, pointing at Storr."

Hell. Just how many unlicensed firearms were floating around this university? But before Jean could start making plans for a campaign against them, Hathaway had taken action.

"Stay here, Ma'am," he whispered, and was through the door before Jean could order him not to be a bloody reckless _idiot_.

* * *

The bore of the handgun swung towards James for a moment, when Mortensen noticed his entry. James quickly put up his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"It's Sergeant Hathaway. I'm here to help," he said.

Mortensen stared at him wild-eyed for a moment, then swung the handgun back towards Storr, who gave a little squeak of fear. He was visibly sweating from the bald patch that crowned his head.

"There's nothing you can to help," Mortensen said. "He killed her!"

"No, no!" Storr shouted. "It wasn't me!"

"It was suicide," James said gently. "It wasn't him." He took a step forward. Mortensen didn't notice.

"It might as well have been you. You invited her here, for a meeting with you, at two-thirty yesterday. Having invited me here to a meeting at _a quarter past_. Which means she was outside, listening, while you told me you knew about me and her, about how she'd confessed her 'crush' on me, and asked me whether I reciprocated. And I, not knowing she was listening, told you no!"

The scales fell from James' eyes, as Storr's spiteful cruelty was revealed. He imagined Lisa Nichols crouching outside, ear pressed to the crack in the door just as Innocent's surely was, tears coursing down her cheeks as she overheard every single word of Mortensen's denial.

"Well, wasn't it the truth?" Storr bleated. "She deserved to hear it from your own lips! I was doing her a favour!"

"What was I supposed to tell you? That yes, I had a crush on one of my own students? You knew full well I would have to deny it to you, no matter how I felt! And because of you, she...she..." The gun shook as Mortensen tightened his grip.

"No!" James shouted, placing himself between Storr and Mortensen. "You don't have to do this. Killing him isn't going to bring her back." For a long moment he stared down the barrel of the handgun. With an anguished cry, Mortensen put the gun down.

From behind him, he heard Storr scramble out from behind his desk. He made for the door and threw it open. "Oh, no, you don't!" came Innocent's battle-cry, followed by a loud thump.

He looked back at Mortensen, standing forlornly in the middle of the room. "He's going to get his just deserts," he promised him. "We'll get him on tampering with a crime scene and interfering with a murder enquiry, at the very least."

"But what you said was true. Nothing's going to bring her back," Mortensen whispered. "You asked me before whether economists believe in true love. I don't know if everyone does, but I do. And I've lost mine forever, all because I was more concerned for my career than for her. She came to me...day before yesterday. She told me everything. I didn't reject her then. I told her I had to think about it. Instead, she heard my so-called true feelings in the most callous way possible. _He_ didn't kill her. _I_ did." 

He raised the gun once more. This time it was pointed at his own temple.

 _Oh, bloody hell._ "This isn't what she would have wanted," James said. "If she truly loved you, she would have wanted you to be alive, and happy."

"How do you know how she would have felt?" Mortensen shouted. "No one knows! That bastard went and destroyed her suicide note! He can't even _remember_ what it said! So how could you _possibly_ know?"

James glanced at the door, left ajar in Storr's hasty exit. Was Innocent still out there, or was she still busy apprehending him? Either way, he had to do something to get Mortensen to put that gun down. And there was only one thing he could think of at the moment.

He took a deep breath.

"Because I could be her. I basically _was_ her. I was in love with my DI, for years and years."

Mortensen's gun-hand wavered. " _Was_ in love? What happened?"

"I finally screwed up the courage to tell him how I felt."

"Did he say yes?"

The image of Lewis' gobsmacked expression slowly turning to acceptance, then desire, played in Hathaway's mind for the millionth time. His lips curved upwards at the memory.

"Yes, he did."

"Even though it's forbidden."

James nodded. And if Chief Superintendent Innocent hears about it, she'll have my neck, and his, he didn't add.

"But I didn't say yes," Mortensen cried. "I could have, but I was too obsessed with my own career. And I destroyed her life!"

James picked his words carefully. "She made a choice, and it turned out to be an irrational one. But there was nothing you could have done," he intoned, as if pronouncing absolution.

Mortensen's gun dropped limply to his side, one finger still curled around the trigger, but the safety latch on.

"She was my number one," he murmured. "My only one. How am I supposed to keep on going, knowing I'll be alone my whole life?"

James thought of Lewis, of the lines of grief that had etched themselves into his face, of the way they creased when he smiled.

"You endure," he said simply. "You endure, and someday, you'll find someone. Or they'll find you." He stepped up to Mortensen and eased the gun from Mortensen's limp fingers.

"And when they ask at last, you say yes."

Mortensen burst into tears and crumpled to the carpet, beginning to sob. James let him be. He emptied the bullet chamber, then fished into a pocket for an evidence bag and sealed the gun into it.

The door creaked open, and James looked up as Innocent entered, her face a battleground of warring emotions.

If James was any judge, at the moment, exasperation was definitely winning.

* * *

Storr made a full confession. He'd come across the body, along with a suicide note. Gurdip managed to recover a first draft from Lisa's laptop. The note not only contained a declaration of passion for Mortensen, it indicted Storr for his cruelty and made it clear that Lisa Nichols had chosen to kill herself where Storr would be the one to find her. In a panic for his own reputation, Storr destroyed the suicide note, and dressed up the scene to look like a murder, and tried to implicate Mortensen for good measure. As Jean had worked out, there was no love lost between the two men. Storr was bitterly jealous of Mortensen's professional success as such a young age. After depositing his dog and the ladder at his own house, he'd driven on to Courtenay College and planted the rest of the roll of twine in Mortensen's rooms, just as Mortensen walked in. It hadn't taken Storr long to realise that his ill-planned plot was unravelled. Mortensen had an excellent alibi for the entire morning. His best bet now was to ward suspicion off both of them. He'd searched Lisa's room to remove any earlier copies of her suicide note. He'd instructed Mortensen to keep quiet about Lisa Nichols' confession of love, and told Lisa's college friends to keep their lips sealed as well. They all liked Mortensen, hadn't wanted him to get into trouble over what had seemed an entirely one-sided crush, and had therefore agreed.

The questioning, paperwork and all the little tasks that attended a murder and attempted murder case took up the rest of the afternoon and continued well into the evening. Jean deliberately refused to address Hathaway's own confession, preferring to let her initial anger cool.

By the time evening swung round, her anger had basically evaporated. The lessons of Storr, Mortensen and Lisa Nichols hadn't been lost on her. But she had to have it out with Hathaway sometime. And perhaps tackling just one of the dynamic duo first would be a good step.

"Drinks, Hathaway?" she said.

"Ma'am?" he gaped at her. He'd been expecting a bollocking the whole afternoon, though the set of his jaw told her she wasn't going to receive any apologies if she did.

"I'm your governor for a day. I'd like to do whatever governors do with their bagmen nowadays to celebrate the end of a case."

Hathaway blinked at her, his cheeks flushing unmistakably pink.

Damn. She'd hoped that they hadn't progressed to _that_ stage yet. It would make things so much easier, administratively speaking, if they were platonic. She sighed, and directed for Hathaway to drive them to his usual pub.

They wound up at the Trout, sitting outside on the terrace. It was quiet, the chill in the air having driven the rest of the patrons indoors. Jean warmed herself up with a glass of the Trout's best chardonnay, while Hathaway, being the designated driver, had to make do with orange juice. He looked dreadfully young all of a sudden, and for a moment Jean imagined that it was her own son sitting across the wooden table. What if Chris ever fell in love with his own inspector? She fervently hoped he never had to deal with so complicated a relationship, but suppose he did. What then?

Thinking like a mother wouldn't help her think clearly about this, she reprimanded herself. She had to think like a Detective Chief Superintendent.

This wasn't the first time she'd had to deal with a case of fraternisation across ranks. But she wasn't feeling the usual qualms that she should. Because she actually trusted them, she realised, both Lewis and Hathaway, utterly. Robbie, the gentlest of souls, would never force James to do anything he didn't want to do, and James was stubborn enough and principled enough to refuse to do anything he didn't feel was right.

Furthermore, Lewis had never pushed Hathaway forward for promotion, though the younger man was clearly qualified enough, and had been for years. Perhaps it had been out of a desire on both their parts to stay together. Detectives spent more time with their partners than they did with their spouses, after all.

And if Lewis did recommend Hathaway for promotion tomorrow? She would support the recommendation wholeheartedly. She had personal knowledge of Hathaway's capabilities as a detective now, wholly unfiltered by Lewis' opinion, whether or not it was biased.

On a personal level, who was she to come between true love? Did she really want to drive them apart, the way Storr had driven Lisa Nichols and Mortensen apart? Of course, they wouldn't necessarily allow themselves to be driven apart. Lewis was close to retirement age, and Hathaway's talents could be applied to all sorts of professions. They'd stick together, she was sure of that. They'd back each other up through thick and thin.

But what good would it do? Would the Oxfordshire Police and public really be better off without her best investigative team, just because they happened to be shagging in secret?

"James," she began. He looked up, uncertain, like a puppy expecting to be kicked. "Promise me one thing."

"Ma'am?" He opened his eyes wide, startled.

"Make sure this never happens to you."

"Hasn't it already, Ma'am?" he asked quietly.

She made up her mind then and there. "No, James, because I don't actually know about this. As far as I'm concerned, you said what you needed to say to pacify a suicidal witness. It was a brilliant, inventive strategy, and it worked, and that's what I'm going to report."

James straightened. "I...see, Ma'am."

"You see, I wear two different hats. I can be a DCS, or I can be..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"...A friend?" James suggested.

Jean smiled. "Thank you, James. Anything I observe while wearing my friend hat, I don't know in my official capacity. That is, until I am officially notified of what's going on, or if I see that a situation has got to the point where it is something I have to worry about, wearing my DCS hat. So long as this doesn't affect your work, I'll turn a blind eye to it."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Hathaway said. There was no doubting the sincerity in his voice.

There. It was over. Though now that the unpleasantness was past, Jean was getting a little curious as to how Robbie and James had got together in the first place. She made a mental note to invite Laura to lunch soon, then put the whole matter out of her mind. Inevitably, it returned to the events of the day.

"Despite how this case turned out, I enjoyed being a detective again for a day," she reflected. "Pushing paperwork around can get rather tiresome."

"Someone has to keep people like Lewis and me in line, Ma'am," Hathaway said seriously.

Jean laughed. "There is that, certainly."

"And under different circumstances, Ma'am, I think I would have been quite happy being your bagman."

Well, that was a first. Praise from James Hathaway was high praise indeed. "Thank you, Sergeant. Likewise."

James drained the rest of her orange juice. "Another Ma'am?"

"Same again." She fished for her purse to give him the money, but he stopped her with a gesture. "As your bagman for a day, Ma'am, this one's on me."

Several drinks later, Hathaway apologetically said that he should get back to Lewis. "Of course," Jean said. "And I have to get back to Mr. Innocent."

Hathaway insisted on driving her back, rather than calling for a cab to drop her at home. The lights were off in her house when Hathaway pulled into her driveway a short while later. James glanced at the darkened house, but said nothing.

"This is the place. Thank you, James."

"Good night, Ma'am," he said. "And thank _you_."

She got out, tottering a little unsteadily on the pavement, then turned to shut the door behind her. A thought seized her. She had one last injunction to deliver, while she was still wearing her friend hat.

"James."

"Ma'am?"

"Be happy. For Mortensen and Lisa's sake."

James blinked at her, then allowed a small smile to cross his face. "I think, Ma'am," he confessed, "I already am."

* * *

Sitting by the window, it occurred to Robbie that he was behaving like one of those ridiculous leading ladies of the opera pining for the hero to return to her safely. Just one such began to warble out her grief and anxiety in an unintelligible Italian aria from his CD player, underlining the aptness of the comparison.

Was this what it had felt like for Val? Robbie wondered. How many nights had she spent waiting for him to come home, trying to pacify the kids while keeping his tea warm on the stove? Lighting up in anticipation every time the lights of a car flashed against the window, before slumping back in disappointment every time they slid past and continued down the road?

He'd be doing a lot more of this in the future, he supposed. When he retired. Hathaway might continue on with the police, or go back into academia; either way, knowing James and his workaholic habits, he wouldn't be keeping regular hours. He'd have to do something about that.

It was near on ten when James finally returned. He looked bone-weary, world-weary, and utterly appalled to find Robbie awake.

"What on earth are you doing up?" He glanced at the tea, long cold on the table. "You didn't need to cook for me. And...isn't this breakfast stuff?"

"All I know how to make, lad, but I thought you'd be hungry."

"I could eat a horse," Hathaway admitted. He unwound the scarf from around his neck and tossed his coat onto the settee.

"No horsemeat on the menu, lad, but I do have sausage and somewhat rubbery eggs."

"They'll be delicious," James promised, digging in as if he hadn't eaten in a week. "And you still haven't told me why you're up."

"I'm feeling much better. Must have been the 24-hour 'flu," Robbie said, sitting down to watch him eat. "Laura stopped by at two o'clock with some chicken soup. Perked me right back up, it did."

"That's good," James mumbled through a forkful of sausage.

Robbie waited till James had stopped wolfing the food down and shifted to a more sedate pace. "So how did it go?"

James made a face. He told the story of his day between mouthfuls. When he told of the armed confrontation between Storr and Mortensen, Robbie took his hand. James gave it a gentle squeeze, as if to say, _I'm here. I'm not going anywhere._ He continued, right through to the end.

"Bloody hell, James."

"That's how I've felt all day."

Robbie exhaled. "So. Innocent knows."

"Well, she knows, but she doesn't _know_ -know. Unless anyone ever reports it to her officially, she'll plead ignorance. In the meantime, we're to be the souls of discretion."

"That's good of her." Considering where they'd started out, it was bloody generous of her.

The track playing in the background changed. Jussi Björling began to croon _La donna e mobile_. Robbie exchanged a glance with James.

"Perhaps we should send her a thank-you present," James said.

"Except not actually from the two of us, officially."

James snorted. "No."

"I suppose," Robbie said meditatively, "we really should take Innocent's advice."

"Mmm." Hathaway pondered, looking thoughtful. "I suppose we could start by being quieter while we're having..."

"Don't even say it," Robbie warned.

"...rumpy-pumpy." James gave him a wicked little grin. " _Sir_ ," he added, for good measure.

Robbie shook his head. The daft lad was never going to change, was he? And he fervently hoped he never would.

He wrapped his hand in James' tie and tugged the lad towards him. "Such a mouth on you," he murmured, and leaned forward to stopper it with his own.

* * *

"Hathaway! For heaven's _sake_! Lewis was bad enough, but now _you_?"

"Sorry, Ma'am," James said miserably, blowing his nose into his handkerchief.

"I should have thought you'd have known better by now. And Lewis, why on earth...?"

"Because he's a stubborn sod who won't listen to reason, Ma'am?" Lewis was ready with his excuse, this time. James supposed he deserved it, but he hadn't really felt all that badly that morning, and he hadn't wanted Lewis to be inflicted with any of the other DSes.

"I should hope that he'll at the very least listen to _orders_ ," Innocent huffed. "Send him home and tuck him into bed. I can't have a DS running around sneezing on every suspect he questions. I'll assign you someone else for today. Perhaps I myself..."

Lewis' horrified face was truly a sight to behold.


End file.
